


Old Habits

by benedictedcumberbatched



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 19:40:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3459476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benedictedcumberbatched/pseuds/benedictedcumberbatched
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When I was in rehab, your eyes kept me going. When I was shot, you told me which way to fall. You saved my life. But your eyes, Molly Hooper, and you yourself, do things to me, make me feel things I try not to feel, which drive me back to the needle. I can forget how I feel when I’m high. You confound me</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Habits

**Author's Note:**

> As always nothing belongs to me.
> 
>  
> 
> Story inspired by "Habits" by Tove Lo.

**2008**

“Wrong.”

Molly Hooper jumped and spun around, her hands cradling a blackened lung as she stared at the disheveled man. “Can-Can I help you?” she stammered.  
“You think ‘e died of lung cancer. You’re wrong,” he slurred, gesturing wildly to the body on the slab. 

She dropped the lung into the scale and quickly shucked off her bloodied gloves, tossing them into the bin before turning around with her arms crossed. She gasped, as he suddenly stood within inches of her; his eyes were glassy but trying to focus on her. “Why am I wrong to think he died of lung cancer?” she asked quietly, feeling incredibly small under his gaze.

“‘Cause you missed the ‘mportant bit right there. He may have been a life long smoker, like me, but he didn’t die from it. He died because his wife added an increased amount of bleach to his nightly drinks. You can tell from the chemical burns to his mouth, nose, and throat. If you removed his stomach and analyzed the contents, you’ll find I’m correct,” he rambled off, swaying on his feet slightly, his right hand absently scratching at the inside of his left arm. 

“How did you…” she began to say but watched as he fell over and crashed to the floor. Her startled shriek had the morgue door flying open again.

“Oh for gods sake. Doctor Hooper I do apologize about him. He must have snuck away when I was discussing a case with Mike. He wouldn’t remain in the car once I brought him in,” newly minted Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade explained as he bent down and quickly checked to make sure his charge was still breathing. “Right, we’ll just be out of your hair, Molly,” he added, slapping the man’s cheeks a couple time to wake him up a bit. He hoisted him up and slung the man’s arm around his shoulder.

Molly rushed over and held open the door. “Who is he, Detective Inspector?” she asked as they wedged through the doorway.

“Sherlock Holmes, drug addict and bloody genius, god help me,” Lestrade replied as he dragged Holmes away.

Molly stared after them for a bit before she allowed the door to swing shut. Turning back to the body, she grabbed a fresh pair of gloves and carefully cut away at the remaining organs. As she cut away at the stomach, she remembered what Holmes had said and set it aside to look over. 

Sure enough, a few hours later as she signed off on the autopsy, Holmes had been correct that there had been bleach in the deceased’s stomach mixed with alcohol. As to how Holmes knew it was the wife, well, that was Lestrade’s division.

\--

**3 Months Later**

It was her eyes that haunted him and kept him going. He didn’t remember much of that first encounter all those months ago, but he could remember her face. He could remember the way her eyes had been startled but attentive when he had stumbled into her morgue, the way her hands carefully cradled that black lung. He couldn’t really remember what they discussed or what happened to cause him to end up with that officer slapping his face and yanking him to his feet but that wasn’t important.

His first few days in the latest facility had been the hardest. They always were. The lack of anything remotely interesting in his system wore on him; the sweats, the constant nausea, and the pain. The lack of sleep he could handle, he could go days without sleep, but when his body, his transport, finally gave in, he slept fitfully. Those large brown eyes would swim before him, staring concernedly at him. But it wasn’t always concern that filled those orbs. It took him until withdrawal passed and recovery began before he was able to place the other element to that stare: hope. 

Even during the most boring of group discussions or individual meetings, it was her and those eyes that stayed on the forefront of his mind. 

\--

**2 Months Later**

The case had been a particularly difficult one to swallow. It was never easy to tell someone their loved one wasn’t coming back. Although he couldn’t remember ever losing a person close to him, not that he had many to lose, the pain and grief was something he could understand. It was in her eyes when he had seen her last. 

He never believed people when they said the eyes were the window to the soul, he didn’t believe in souls and if he did, the eyes wouldn’t be it. But there was something about hers, something that had once provided hope and motivation, but now only left him with emptiness. Where those eyes had haunted him, they still did, but this time, he realized as he depressed the plunger, they haunted him so much he had nowhere else to turn.

He had to make them stop staring at him, judging him.

\--

**2014**

He had been good. Truly he had. He kept telling himself that it was all for a case, each time he depressed the plunger on the syringe it was like saying hello to a long lost friend, returning to their warm embrace and the euphoria at seeing them again. As he dropped the syringe onto the piss-stained mattress and released the tourniquet from around his arm, his head fell back against the wall, his eyes closed as he reveled in the rush. 

It had nothing to do with John and Mary’s wedding nor being gone on their sex holiday. It had nothing to do with Janine who lay in his bed at Baker Street. God she was so irritating, but it was all for a case, everything was for a case. 

But those eyes, those eyes returned as he closed his own. He opened his eyes and stared at the wall across from him. It was those eyes that would always haunt him, to drive him to the needle. Those things he liked to repress and pretend he didn’t have, those _feelings_ for her were unsustainable for his lifestyle so he turned back. It was those pictures of her from the wedding, the ones where she was hanging off Tom, her smiles that didn’t reach her eyes that had set him over the edge. He could never make her happy, not truly, not the way he was. 

Although those eyes, riddled with disappointment, continued to swim before his vision, he found them welcoming and perhaps comforting as he lay down on the mattress and rolled onto his side. 

\--

His eyes slowly opened to stare at the starch white tiles. He didn’t quite know where he was but as he looked at the tiles he began to deduce. There was a consistent beeping to his left, a heart monitor; there was a thin tube to his right, his eyes shifting to follow it as he took in the line and the numb, groggy feeling he was experienced led him to believe he was on morphine, _fantastic_. 

There was a shifting of his blankets and he turned his head to the other side and looked down, a sense of calm flooding him as he took her in. Molly Hooper, her head resting on the edge of the bed, her hand near his but clutching the blanket. He lay still for a moment, not wanting to disturb her. It was frankly even amazing she was there. Although the pain had long since subsided, he could still feel the sting of her hand against his cheek. She shifted in her sleep, her hand bumping into his leg. She jerked upright, her eyes wild as she looked around.

“You’re awake,” was the first words out of her mouth the moment she looked over at him.

He stared down at his hand and flipped it over, palm up, extended toward her. He watched as she hesitated before reaching out and slipping her hand into his. He curled his fingers around her small but capable hands and smoothed his thumb over the back. 

“You came. I didn’t think you would,” he said quietly.

Molly smiled grimly, staring at their joined hands. “I didn’t think I would either. But, I had to see that you were alive for myself. What were you thinking, Sherlock?” 

“There was a set of unforeseen circumstances. However, you saved me. Many times you have saved me, Molly Hooper. You’ve saved me and cursed me,” he replied, looking at her.

Her eyes lifted from their hands to meet his. Those eyes, the one thing that helped him in rehab, the thing that had driven him back to the high more than once, had also saved him from certain death. To say he was a bit conflicted on the matter was an understatement.

“How did I do that?” she asked quietly, not wanting to interrupt this moment, whatever it was.

Sherlock hesitated, his eyes closing and opening slowly, the morphine drip kicking back in.

“Do you remember when we first met?” he said slowly, breathing in and out shallowly. He had to get this out before he fell back asleep. He waited until she nodded before continuing. “When I was in rehab, your eyes kept me going. When I was shot, you told me which way to fall. You saved my life. But your eyes, Molly Hooper, and you yourself, do things to me, make me _feel_ things I try not to feel, which drive me back to the needle. I can forget how I feel when I’m high. You confound me,” he slurred, sagging back against the pillow.

Molly remained silent as he slipped off to sleep, her hand clutching his. She didn’t know how long she sat there, watching the gentle rise and fall of his bare chest. There was once a time when that sight would have left her flustered and looking for something to cover him with. Instead, her eyes just followed the line of his IV, the heart monitor sensors on his pectorals, the bandage just below the right side of his ribs. She thought of what he had confessed to her, how she somehow saved and ruined him. Getting up, she released his hand and approached the head of the bed. She brushed his curls away before bending down and kissing his forehead. He stirred slightly as she did so, but was relieved when he didn’t wake. 

“Oh Sherlock, one day you will realize that feelings are not something to suppress,” she said quietly as she carded her fingers through his hair. Straightening, she grabbed her coat from the back of the chair she had been in all night before leaving the room. There would be time for them to talk another time, but for now, he needed to think things through.


End file.
